Last to Fall
by TwilightTundra
Summary: Wild ARMS 3. One shot. For all those who complain about the game's ending, this one is for you. I can make it worse. lol Warnings: Dark Humor, drug abuse, character death.


**Copyright:** Wild ARMs belongs to Media Vision; not me.

**Note: **Uh, I was just in one of those moods, ya know? XD It's truly meant to be dark comedy, but I'm not sure if that's very obvious or not.

Majestic, lavender eyes scrutinized the feminine form rustling underneath the covers of their dinky little bed, property of the scummiest hotel in all of Filgaia: located in Little Twister, city of outlaws.

For any other man, her hands wandering his body, teasing all his secret spots, and promising kinky sex, would have more then made up for the shitty hotel—indeed even the circumstances, but he was hardly just "any man."

The smell of liquor that seemed to leak out of her very pores these days was almost enough to make him hurl over the side of the bed. Of little consequence it would have been, since vomit well suited the grimy floors.

Out of the blue, he felt a sharp pain assault one of his toes.

"Cut that shit out!" the youthful man screeched, realizing the woman, ten years his senior, had regressed to trying to bite his god damned toes off.

She merely giggled in response and sat up just enough to reach her arm over to the dresser, her goal being a bottle of cheap whisky. He tensed as the sheets fell from her head, revealing familiar chocolate tinted locks that had lost nearly the entirety of their former luster. Her eyes, once full of wonder and unparalleled optimism, were devoid of any meaningful emotion. It had been as such for over a year.

To think, that, at one time, her presence was a comfort, and their love making, full of passion, well, as passionate as he was emotionally capable of anyway.

Thoroughly disgusted, he squeezed out from underneath her, careful to avoid brushing against the bullet graze on the left side of her abdomen, evidence of their leader's ever consistent "dead or alive" status—no, of all their statuses.

She fell back onto the cool pillows, attributed to her lover's lower body temperature, and lazily, took a swig. She observed him put on the same old jeans and the same old black shirt, noting how he didn't bother to button it up. More of an afterthought really, she asked, "Where are you going?"

"Out," was all the response he could bring himself to grace her with before shutting the bedroom door and heading down the hallway toward the lobby staircase. He passed his male companions' room along the way; taking notice the door was slightly ajar. He caught a glimpse of a scholarly man slaving away over the desk, paying no mind to anything else except the notebook in front of him. This was no great surprise.

The silver-haired man groaned as he continued on his way. Sitting on the edge of the stairs, the pathetic sight of that big, stupid oaf stung his eyes. Actually, "oaf" was too kind of a term for the thing in front of him now; primate was more accurate for a man who never showers, and drunkard for one who never utters a word sober.

"Well, ah be damned! It's the ageless, blank-shooting, little punk! What are you doing out of your room already? Did you come too soon and piss her off?" He laughed, oblivious to the well-known fact that a joke isn't even slightly funny anymore after the tenth time.

"Fuck off, Gallows," the boy retorted, quickly descending the stairs. Saying anything more wasn't even worth the effort. He knew it—just like everything else—from experience.

Finally liberated from the stuffy inn, Jet Enduro leaned against one of the many posts, looking up toward the sky, and recalled how it had all gone so wrong.

The first two years on the run weren't very trying. Quite the opposite, they were full of thrill, adventure, and a welcome change from the weight of the world on their shoulders. Gallows, Virginia, and Clive were all able to visit their families, not for long periods, but often enough.

Year two in particular, was eventful for Jet. It was the year he and Virginia became a couple. Then, he had mocked her dreams of clearing their names, getting married, settling down on the Maxwell ranch, and making a family. Now… he would give anything just to hear her speak of such dreams again.

Mid-year three, cracks in the foundation started to form. The price on their heads increased and so did the number and skill of the bounty-hunters after them. Returning home became an impossibility, for at best, hunters could lay in wait, and at worst, the identities of their family members could become known and used as an advantage to their capture.

Year four, Virginia's long-honored strategy of emptying their cartridges and running was shattered to pieces, when Gallows, left with little choice, pulled the trigger, ending the life of one of their pursers. Soon after, another zero rested among the others on their famous wanted poster, and just as greenery slowly started to return to the sands of Filgaia, the hunt for the heroes who secretly risked all to make it a reality became the global past-time.

Year five, Gallows fell into depression upon news that the wise-woman of Basker, and the only voice given any attention attesting to their innocence, breathed her last breathe. Unable to cope with his regrets, Jet's best friend took to the bottle and became a shadow of his former self. Gallows was the first to fall. The weight of Virginia's role of leader crushed her smile and hardened her soul.

By year six, Jet's seemingly immortal exterior was ever evident. Virginia had come to overtake him by an inch and the smallest of wrinkles formed underneath her eyes. Clive started jotting down numerous scientific explanations for the phenomena, which Jet ignored and Virginia fumed over.

During year seven, Clive finally broke down in tears one night over the passing of his daughter's childhood. Gallows was too drunk to offer support, and Virginia was far too pissed to care due to the elder man's newest theory that Jet was also sterile on top of everything else. Jet was just too…Jet…to truly console anyone, especially someone who no longer regarded him as a fellow human being.

Near the end of year eight, Clive went mad, for lack of a better word, only focusing on his asinine theories every waking moment they weren't fighting or running. The first wave hugged Jolly Rogars's shores while Virginia sought refuge for the first time, inside of a tavern.

Year nine, the last glint of hope faded from her eyes; Virginia Maxwell tore apart her father's photo in a drunken rage screaming at him, asking why everyone else had been granted a future, but not them, the very ones who had struggled so hard to make it possible. Jet couldn't bear to leave his comrades, no matter how unrecognizable they had become, so he resigned to watching the lifeless, destructive hell that was their everyday lives.

Year ten: just as Jet finished recalling the events of the time gone past, a single ARM's-shot infiltrated the air, originating from the second floor. Jet knew the sound of her weapon like none other. He collapsed in utter disbelief, the last to fall, and yet, the only one to remain intact.

**Endnote:** Yes, I'm horrible. XD


End file.
